Dogs Hurt, Love, Chase Their Tails. But I Don't Think They Ever Ask Why

I love my dogs.
I wish I were a better owner and trained them better.
They would have more exercise, know what I expect, be more fulfilled. That is the nature of a dog.
I know scientific observation of dogs is fairly new.
I have some observations.
Gracie and Brodie are, respectively, full and half-Corgis. A lot has been bred into the breed. Brodie, as half, differs in some ways from Gracie. But both shy from anything in my hand. Neither has ever been threatened or harmed. They shy anyway. That must be a breeding characteristic, and I wonder why it was bred in.
Brodie's half not-Corgi side welcomes a pat on the head and stroke down the back. And he came from a rescue shelter. Gracie, who has been indulged her entire life, dodges a hand to her head. She will accept it after she has ducked under my leg, with her head exposed. Sheltered so, she will also let me run my hand down her back.
She is so sweet. So sweet. But if I am petting her and Brodie approaches, she is a bitch. Literally. Females usually rule, and in this, she does. But when I give them snacks, she always lets him go first. I haven't figured that out.
Dogs are in the present.
I don't think the question"why" is in the breed, whichever.
And that makes it sweeter, and sadder for me.
They have hope, and joy. They have sadness. Despair? probably. But they fight to live, to survive.  I don't think they every ask "Why?"
A year ago, Brodie finally had to have the hernia surgery that had been pending from puppyhood. It was a more serious tear than we thought, and in addition to surgery, he had to wear a cone until the incision healed. It took longer than we thought. Seven weeks.
After all, he couldn't eat, except by hand. He could drink. He was uncomfortable. It lasted weeks. His eyes became so sad. And what killed me was--it might have been better if he had wondered why, if he then could be comforted by petting and attention. He enjoyed it. But it didn't really help. He understood this was what I was putting him through, and he had to go through it. He appreciated the attention, and the fact was, this was life for the present. He never wondered why. He just accepted this was life for now. And he was sad. Somehow for me, it made it worse.
Because I had to do it. His life depended on it. He simply accepted it was life for now.
And I realized why the dog that is kicked and abused crawls back, never understanding why, just understanding what the dog is supposed to do. It is what it is.
I am alpha. He is pack.
I didn't hurt him because I could, but because it was necessary. He will never understand that, but then, for him, no justification is required. He loves me constantly, until this moment.
And I love him.
And I wish I did better by him, and by Gracie. They are great company.
Neither are fat. They get some exercise, but need more. Well, so do I.
I am not a human living alone. I am a social being, with my pack. We are household.
The house was much cleaner before they came. Dogs are perpetual toddlers, in a way. In another way, they are a separate specie with separate expectations, needs and understandings.
Often, they are ignored, or receive little attention, but they are okay with that.
They have been sidekicks to mankind for millennia.
And that is just the way it is.

Life in a cone for a dog that wants OUT

Sorry. I flunked personal responsibility again.

I kept meaning to take the dogs to the vet last week to have their nails clipped. (No, I don't do it. I could whine about my arthritic hands, but the truth is, I'm afraid I won't do it right so I take them to the vet, who charges $12 per dog. I had the money, but I put it off.)

Brody is three, Gracie is two. They love to play together. They rear and paw each other, slobbering on each other and having a wonderful time. Then they race around the house, knocking all my rugs askew. And they laugh. They really do.

Last night, though, one of Gracie's nails caught Brody's lower eyelid and left a nick. A quarter-inch nick through all three layers of skin. Brody ran to me. He didn't whimper, He just rubbed against me and bled a bit on my clothes. It didn't really look too bad. I put some ointment on it, gave him a benadryl, and we all went to bed.

Looked pretty good this morning. He pawed at it a few times and I gave him another benadryl. He left it alone. BUT, by 4 pm, it was obvious he needed to see the vet. She had time to see him.

When I pulled out the leash he started doing handsprings. Since he only has gone to the vet most times when I get out the leash, I'm not exactly sure why he is so delighted, but he is. Eternal optimist. (THIS time we will go where there are squirrels and I can pee on numerous new places.) He charged to the car. Leaped out and sniffed around. Only when I opened the door to the clinic did he dig in his paws with a tremendous amount of energy, telegraphing, "NOOOOOO! I don't want to go!"

Until today, the worst they had ever done is clip his nails and give him shots.

This time the vet said if we didn't mend the tear it could affect his vision for the rest of his life. OK. He had surgery. Tear is mended. He has a bunch of medicine and they loaned me the dreaded cone over his head. Which he has to wear for a week.

Gracie, Corgi to the bone, was horrified when he came in.

"Who are you? You are dangerous! Get away, Get away!" sniffing all over, "It's you? You look like a monster!"

She won't go near him.  She's whining and lying under my chair as I write. I have told her he is not dangerous. She is not at all sure. She doubts me. Tough act for the alpha in the pack.

Brody can't sleep on his side. He can't jump up on the recliner, at least, tonight.

He supposedly can eat and drink from any dish smaller than the cone, but he couldn't figure out supper, so I held a salad dish with his kibble and chicken broth so he could eat it--and he WAS hungry, a good thing.

His ears are down. He looks so sad, but he's getting better at navigating. He's eaten. Tomorrow, eye drops several times a day and another anti inflamatory,

He just jumped up for a rub and a hug, tail wagging. Guess the last of the anesthesia has worn off and he feels more himself.

Funny, I have dealt with friends sick, even dying, helped when I could, talked, rubbed lotion into sore limbs.

But a dog doesn't know why I took him in to be hurt, to get this blasted cone. He trusts I love him, and with his unconditional dog love, he comes back for the love, the back scratches, the caring, all the time not knowing why I have him in this cone. He loves me anyway.

Isn't that just like a dog?